


Gratifyingly. If Not Surprisingly.

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Community: sentinel_thurs, M/M, Sentinel Thursday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-07 21:45:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20824292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: Just a little "life in the loft" thing.





	Gratifyingly. If Not Surprisingly.

**Author's Note:**

> written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 636: "prophet/prophecy"

"Nice, Jim. I foresee a long, lonely night in your immediate future."

Blair's eyes were narrowed as he looked pointedly at the beer in Jim's hand, and Jim gave it a moment, then just as pointedly raised the bottle to his mouth. Tipped it up and took in a long, lazy swallow. Licked his lips.

Grinned. "You sure about that crystal ball of yours, Madame Zorba?" he said. 

Blair snorted as he pulled his gaze away from Jim's mouth, where -- gratifyingly -- it had been lingering, and rolled his eyes. Possibly at being called 'Madam Zorba,' but more likely at the fact that he knew perfectly well that _Jim _ knew perfectly well that neither of them were sleeping on the couch.

Not tonight, anyway. Not over a lousy beer, even if Jim did happen to be guilty of forgetting his promise to pick up a six-pack on his way home and equally guilty of grabbing the last, lonely beer all for himself. Grabbing it in spite of knowing all about Blair's shit day stuck in bullshit department meetings -- "I'm dying here, Jim; if I make it through this last meeting without losing my tenuous grasp on reality it's only because the second it's over I'm out the door, and when I get home, I'm gonna --"

Gonna suck down a cold one. Or two. Get the taste of those bullshit meetings out of his mouth. Right.

Jim slid the rim of the bottle along his lips, nice and slow, and went for another swallow. Licked his lips again. Nice and slow.

And apparently it was time for Blair to do a little visible swallowing of his own, even without the benefit of an ice-cold Bud to smooth things along. "Totally sure," Blair answered, belatedly, and yep, his voice sounded a little under-lubricated, just this side of hoarse. 

For one reason or another. "On the other hand," he added, as his gaze moved with -- gratifyingly -- transparent intent from Jim's mouth to the beer and back again, "there _is _a slight chance you could change my mind. Up to you. You know what they say; sharing is caring, man."

Jim smirked and leaned back against the counter. "You want some of this," he said, lifting the bottle and pausing it a bare inch away from his lips, "you know where to find it."

Turned out that Blair did. Gratifyingly. 

If unsurprisingly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You're crap at prophecy, Sandburg," Jim murmured into Blair's ear as he idly ran his fingers through Blair's annoyingly touchable hippie-wannabe hair.

It was absolutely true -- about tonight, anyway -- even though the couch _had _come into play. Was still in play. And, technically, sleeping on the couch had also come into play; if you counted catching a few mutual z's after a little mutual exertion, that is. 

'Mutual' being the key word. Nothing lonely about the couch tonight.

Blair muttered something incomprehensible even to Jim's well-practiced ears and burrowed his head more deeply into Jim's shoulder. Jim could feel the soft curve of Blair's lips, a little puffy now, resting against his skin. 

There was a smile on his own face, Jim could feel that, too. Along with beard-burn: Blair had a hell of a five-o-clock shadow.

He unhooked his arm from its resting place against the small of Blair's back, earning another preverbal mutter from Blair, and snagged the beer bottle from the coffee table, waggling it experimentally. Barely a slosh in response, maybe half a swallow left. Not surprising; he and Blair had shared the crap out of the second half of that Bud.

Gratifyingly.

And not surprisingly. Prophecies be damned.


End file.
